


Self Love

by femme4jack



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Sticky Sex, Tentacles, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/pseuds/femme4jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of a mech whose spark spins in unique ways, finding new and wonderful methods of taking delight in himself.  Starring Perceptor/himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally for the Transformers Kink Meme on livejournal, in response to the request found in full [here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8011657#t8011657).
> 
> To recap, the anon requester stated: _"I want to see the mech masturbating his valve with his own spike. It will still be semi-connected (cables, hoses, whatevs,) and can function either as a dildo (the mech moving it in and out manually) or vibrator (put it in and variable speed funtimes!) OR BOTH (why decide? ^^)! More than that, I want someone to happen to stumble on this accidentally (in person, on vidscreen, whatever) and get stupidly turned on. The mech is entirely unaware of being observed so he's not putting on a show--voy, not exhib. What happens next, I leave to anon!"_
> 
> OP Anon requested some world building as to why this particular mech does not interface with others, and that really called to me and will be the major emphasis of much of this story, in addition to the kink.
> 
>  **Chapter Content Notes** : Aside from those made obvious in the request, non explicit, possible dub con trigger in chapter 1 (character is under intense social pressure to sexually conform and attempts to do so). Also, there is a potentially squicky description of the actions of someone averse to anything that is not produced by or connected to his own frame, including personal lubricants.

_Cybertron, a long long long time ago..._

"This upgrade is normally only standard on mecha who are off planet for vorns at a time. I don't think _you_ need any more excuses to avoid social interactions. The whole point of our interface equipment is to, you know, interface," the medic said from across the desk in her consultation office.

"On the contrary. The function of overload-inducing modifications of any configuration is to discharge excess circuit load and assist in defragmentation, leading to more efficient recharge cycles, and thus, to more adaptive functioning."

"Primus, Perceptor, you make it sound like recycling your coolant or cleaning your intake filters. Interfacing is also an amazing way to connect with others, something, I will remind you, that it very difficult to do when you spend orn upon orn in the lab..."

"Is there any medical justification to deny my application for the upgrade, Greenlight? Did I omit something from the request?" Perceptor interrupted sharply, picking up the datapad as if to search for possible errors. "The last I inquired, it was a medical board approved type 1c astandard modification that requires no further authorization than that of ones assigned medic, and may only be denied if it contradicts existing core coding and said coding cannot be upgraded without causing systemic damage."

The medic's field briefly surged in irritation, but was quickly schooled into the calm and compassionate resonance she was well regarded for. "Look Perceptor. We've been friends for how long now? I'm speaking as that now, not your medic. You are a lovely, desirable mech who has a lot to offer others as an interface partner. I don't want to see you missing out on that by spending even more time alone than you already do. There is nothing wrong with self-servicing, and this mod will certainly make that more enjoyable for you. But, if that is all you do, you are missing out on... on the things that make functioning worthwhile."

"So you will deny my request? On what grounds? That I am exceptionally effective at my research and dedicated to my function?" Perceptor's vocal modulator was rapidly pitching itself higher.

"Of course I won't deny it, Perceptor. Primus! Just promise me you won't let this be one more reason to keep yourself from others. I know what a good friend you are. I, and many others at the Academy would have gladly partnered with..."

"Please, Greenlight," Perceptor cut in with the same haughty tone he used to debate his peers at consultations and seminars. "Do not humiliate yourself further by persevering in this line of disputation."

Greenlight grimaced, and her optics flashed with annoyance at the tone, but entered her approval code on the datapad. "Very well, if you will follow me."

* * *

Arriving back at his lab, Perceptor threw himself on the small berth he kept in the corner, his frame visibly shaking. The nanite injection and his time in the growth tank formatting the new mod had not been so bad. But he had only barely managed to get through the necessary testing and calibration after he had emerged an orn later.

Thanks to his earlier rudeness, Greenlight had remained professional, if coldly distant, throughout the process, which was a relief to him. He had endured her questions and the ghastly touch of the medical probe without pushing it away from himself or purging, despite the horrifying feeling of having something external to himself activate sensors that only he should touch.

She had warned him that he would likely overload, and that this was expected. He most certainly had not, for which he was grateful.

Perceptor felt a twinge of guilt for being so harsh toward his medic and friend. Friendships were difficult for him on the best of orns. It was not that he did not enjoy the company of others. A good conversation, the stimulation of sharing theories and equations, or even attending a cultural event were highly engaging to him. He yearned for company to share such aspects of functioning with. But unlike his peers, enjoying the company of his fellow mecha did not automatically lead to a desire to interface.

In fact, touching another's frame intimately, or being touched in return, were not only undesirable to him, they were revolting. He could not fathom the desire to place intimate parts of his frame within another person or having something alien to himself penetrate him. Even external interface aids were repulsive, because they were not a part of his own frame.

He had made the mistake of trying to explain this aspect of his personality matrix to others he had been close to. Some had felt it to be a cruel rejection on his part, and had rejected him in turn, claiming that he was arrogant and thought himself better than them. Others had more kindly suggested all sorts of potential solutions to what they assumed had gone wrong with his interface protocols, because clearly a mech who did not wish to interface with others was defective in some manner.

One time, early on at the academy, he had followed the advice of well meaning friends to simply get himself overcharged and interface with someone, no matter how much disgust he felt. They had been certain that once Perceptor had actually experienced the process in its entirety, the aversion would naturally disappear.

The result had been horrific, to say the least. He had chosen an engineering student who had consistently been an outstanding conversation partner and had expressed a great deal of interest in him, but had always been respectful and never pushy. He'd had to mute his own vocalizer and freeze his own motor relays simply to tolerate the beginning of the process, and then had forced himself into emergency recharge to endure the rest. Scrapper had never spoken with him again.

Perceptor had been so distressed at how his aversion was impacting his relationships that he finally did seek the assistance of a specialist in interface coding malfunctions. Nothing was found in his coding, or at least nothing that could be fixed through non-destructive edits. The aversion was intermingled with nearly every line of his core code, in such a manner that suggested spark influence.

The medic had suggested a radical and experimental treatment known as desensitization and counterconditioning. It was a much more arduous and long-term type of reprogramming that involved exposing himself various stimuli he was averse to and concurrently rewarding himself with stimuli he found pleasurable.

It had been such a dismal failure that the high-end pleasurebot who had been engaged for the process had resigned midway through, saying it was in violation of his ethical coding to continue to attempt to interface with someone who found it so distasteful. Perceptor had never been so relieved, and when the medic had suggested contracting with another, he had politely declined, and then used his influence to have the record of the entire ordeal purged from his medical record lest the medical board decide his "disorder" warranted a full reformat.

What frustrated him most deeply was that his aversion to interfacing felt _normal_ to him, not like the dreaded malfunction that others assumed it to be. He did not feel there was anything wrong with him. He enjoyed the company of other mecha, so long as they were not attempting to seduce him or thrust their overclocked fields into his own.

He was not even disgusted by other mecha interfacing with one another. Sometimes, he even found imagining others interfacing with one another to be a pleasurable way to activate his own equipment in a more efficient manner when he needed to defrag. He was not even averse to the occasional erotic datafile. So long as it did not involve his own frame being in intimate contact with another, real or imagined, it was fine.

It wasn't that he did not wish to have a social life. He did! The idea that he wanted nothing more than to spend all of his time locked in his lab working on his latest research was a carefully crafted fiction. It was simply easier for others to accept that he was a workaholic so dedicated to his function that he forgot to recharge, fuel, or interface than it was for them to accept that he desired their company but not their spikes and valves. He had learned early on not to tell the truth. When his fields failed to respond in the appropriate ways to those around him, feigning exhaustion, distraction with his latest project, or the occasional burst of rude arrogance were easy excuses that others had learned to accept.

It made for a lonely functioning, but at least he was not constantly harassed.

Like it or not, Perceptor did still need to drain his excess charge and defrag. Overloads were as necessary to proper functioning as energon and recharge. For many vorns, he had avoided touching his own spike and valve in order to overload. It was difficult not to associate them with what others all too often expressed a desire to do. There were plenty of other places on his frame that, when stimulated in the proper ways, could eventually lead him to overload.

Unfortunately, such overloads required a great deal of time, and he was not overly patient with the process. Self-stimulating his spike shortened the duration, but not enough for his satisfaction. His valve was truly the most sensor rich part of his frame, but his dislike of interface aids did not make that particularly efficient, either. It took almost as long for him to achieve an overload in his valve through self-stimulation as it did his spike.

As he lay curled on his berth, he felt a sense of relief that perhaps he finally had a way to conduct this needed maintenance in a manner that would be both pleasurable and fast. He slowly relaxed from the unintentional horror Greenlight had inflicted on him while calibrating the sensors. When he felt he could touch himself without activating that recent memory file, he popped the manual release on his cover and examined the upgrade.

At first glance there was nothing to indicate that it was anything other than a normal spike, still tucked into the protective tubing that housed it. He unsubspaced a container of lubrication. It was not something he had obtained elsewhere, but rather, had collected from his own reservoirs that he occasionally coded to produce extra just for this purpose. The scent molecules and consistency felt so right. Perceptor placed a generous amount on one of his dexterous fingers, and circled the tip of his new spike that was just peaking out.

Mmmmm, now that felt nice. Gently circling, teasing, in just the right way, knowing exactly what would help his equipment to pressurize and extend itself from the housing. With his other hand, he traced the rim and then dipped into his valve, knowing precisely which sensors would stimulate the reservoirs within to release that first, lovely rush of hot, slickness and the anticipatory crackling of his nodes deep within.

Next he firmly squeezed the tube housing his spike, and felt the delight of the equipment within extending outward, thick, full, and ready. Just for him, and only for him.

Now was the true test. He wrapped his hand around the base of the spike, and extended his lowest finger down below the base to activate the function that made this spike so desirable to him. He felt a tingle as connectors disengaged, and he pulled it upward and away from his frame.

Perceptor had feared that upon detaching, the spike would feel too much like an interface aid, but as he felt it pulling away, he let out a happy warble. His new spike felt like it was extending, not separating. A long, sensuous looking cable connected it to his interface plate. It was covered in sensors as well, and contained a thick coil of neural-wiring within that connected the nodes in his spike to the rest of his neural net and his spark-chamber.

His other hand left his valve, and both hands began to play with the spike, exploring the high concentration nodes on the bumps and ribs, as well as those scattered along the long cable connecting it to his frame. Without giving it a second thought, he began rubbing it along his frame, touching it to sensitive areas he would normally have to stimulate for several breems just to achieve overload, his frame giving jerks of pleasure as the nodes of his spike crackled and lit nodes along the lens of his microscope, his neck cabling, and on the seam of his chest.

Another rush of fluid between his legs, and with a delighted laugh, Perceptor plunged his own spike into his slick, throbbing valve. It was longer than the standard model, allowing him to grip the end and fill himself completely with thick, hot, crackling perfection.

"Oh, dear me, ah, so good!" Perceptor announced to the empty lab. He did not even need to move it, or activate its vibrating function. His entire universe focused in on the deliriously pleasurable double input as the nodes on the tip of his spike hit those deep in his valve. He felt both the hot tight sheath and throbbing, aching fullness spiraling together with a surge that came straight from his spark. With a high keen, his calipers clamped down hard and his own fluid erupted from his spike into his valve even as flickers of blue ghostly fire erupted all over his frame.

As Perceptor drifted off to recharge, he noted in his logs that the whole process had taken half a breem. Half a deliriously enjoyable, highly efficient breem. Suddenly, his frame seemed like a very good companion, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Notes:** As would be expected from the kinkmeme request - masturbation, detachable sticky equipment, oral.
> 
> Skyfire as a "Delta Seeker" or "Deep Seeker" is borrowed from Tainry's Borealis with permission. For those to whom it matters, I like to place the Academy of Science and Technology in Crystal City rather than Iacon, just because :p.

Perceptor knew it was time to make his egress when the rest of those attending the gathering began to break off in pairs, trines, or various other sized groupings (including the rather large pile who were enthusiastically "welcoming" Beachcomber back after his long research expedition).

"Why don't you stay?" a deeply sonorous voice said as a large hand came down to fully cup his back. "I'd like to hear more about those Inverted Muonic Decay Formulas you've been working on."

Perceptor gave the Delta Class Shuttle a warm smile even as he gently removed his frame from the physical contact that had instantly alerted his own closely held field that the Deep Seeker had far more on his processors than just sharing equations. "Perhaps another orn, Skyfire? I, too, would find such an exchange enlightening, and would like more data regarding those composite silicone photonic lifeforms you encountered in system 82489801.7573. Unfortunately, I have some unstable superdiamagnetistic nanite cultures budding in the lab that need to be checked, and my third abstract for the annual Vector Sigma Symposium still needs editing before I submit it."

Skyfire smiled down on him and chuckled. "You haven't changed a bit, Perceptor. Still haven't found an assistant, I take it?"

"Unfortunately, my work is far too sensitive to entrust to a graduate assistant," Perceptor replied with just the proper amount of weary resignation. "But we simply must schedule some time before you and your partner depart again. Would you happen to be unengaged during the second break on the third orn of the symposium? We could refuel together and continue our discussion."

"I have blocked out that break on my schedule, Perceptor, and look forward to it," Skyfire said warmly just as Glyph and three of her current research assistants jumped on the massive shuttle's frame to urge him back into the party.

"Right then, very well. I felicitously anticipate it was well," Perceptor called to the now highly distracted Delta, and made his own departure. After exiting the assembly hexagon, he made his way briskly toward the Academy's prestigious Promethium Dome where his private lab was housed, greeting students, faculty and staff whom he passed along his way. He enjoyed the bustle of activity around him and the brilliantly lit towers and geodesic domes of the Academy and Crystal City's residential and commercial districts beyond. The Cybertronian night sky was a brilliant orange as the lights of so many thriving cities reflected off the industrial particulates in the atmosphere.

It had been a truly enjoyable orn. Beachcomber, a mech from the outer colonies whom Perceptor had gotten to know when they both had been appointed as research fellows at the Academy of Science and Technology, had just returned from a long expedition. As was his custom, the minibot had given a poetry recitation of works based on his most recent xenogeological research locations.

Perceptor had been equal parts baffled and entertained by the lateral thinking exhibited in Beachcomber's words, much as he was by Beachcomber himself. Even knowing what would eventually take place at the party, he wouldn't have considered missing it. He had become adept over the vorns at enjoying social functions and then making his excuses and ducking out at the right time, to the point it was rare for others to attempt more than a little half-sparked wheedling at him to stay.

Perceptor felt his field relax slightly once he entered the transport tube that would take him to the forty-ninth level of dome where his laboratory was housed. He always looked forward to returning to his own domain. His HUD had been pinging him with the need to overload and defrag for several busy orns, and he had been waiting only for the appropriate departure time from Beachcomber's party to indulge in the much-needed maintenance. He felt a tingle rush through him, from his panel to his spark in anticipation, and vowed to take his time this evening and not become distracted by his many projects. His frame was so very good to him, and deserved the best sort of treatment he could give it.

When the door to his lab slid open and he entered, Perceptor finally expanded his tightly reined field to encompass the peaceful familiarity. His lab, his haven, unlike some of his colleagues', was pristinely clean and organized. He cycled his vents, replacing the molecules of the wider world with those of home.

His chemoreceptors took in a variety of scents: his own mildly spiced energon brew, chemical formulas bubbling in a variety of cylinders, nanite cultures, growth tank fluids, and protomass differentiating into a various of parts for various projects. Then there were the scent molecules Perceptor happily identified as belonging uniquely to him: lubricants and fluids, their composition as unique as the spark field that influenced the nanites that produced them, and underlying it all, the sharp scent of his own overloads, an erotic backdrop to the entire comforting milieu.

He had already refueled at Beachcomber's gathering, so he puttered around for a breem, checking his projects, crooning words of encouragement to one of the nanite cultures as he injected a leptonic infusion into their tank. Satisfied that all was in order, he signaled his audio system to replay the choral music from a concert he had attended several vorns earlier at the Andelite Embassy (located, of course, in the Iacon Dome, the only place on Cybertron with an organic-safe atmosphere). He had found the organic music at once strangely soothing and erotic.

With everything ready, he entered the private washrack that was the prized feature of his lab and quarters. Upon receiving the prestigious Sentinel Prime award for his improved Cybertronium refinement technique, the Academy had offered Perceptor the lab of his choice. He had forsaken other, far larger spaces in lieu of one with a washrack and oil bath. Communal washracks were, obviously, highly communal and therefore heavily enjoyed by others and extremely bothersome to him. He certainly did not mind having some help scrubbing hard to reach places on his frame, but the mecha he had formerly shared racks with always had ideas about getting properly dirty beforehand. As the popular saying went, "Why scrub if there's nothing to wash off?"

In addition to the coveted privacy, his wash facility was also self contained, recycling its own fluids, making cleansing a far more relaxing occasion for the scientist. He had always been rather squeamish about the constantly recycled fluids shared with other mecha in the communal racks.

Perceptor quickly rinsed off the contaminants that had settled on his frame from the previous several orns. His true destination, however, was the oil that was bubbling in the oval-shaped sunken pool in the floor. He slid in with an appreciative moan as the hot, thin oil coated his armor and flowed into his internals. He flared his armor to allow a more thorough coating, and heard the sound of his joints popping back into alignment as tight cables relaxed in the permeating heat and lubrication. Sealing his intake, he sank completely underneath the surface and systematically moved every joint and gear from his neck to his pedes, only surfacing when all were moving without any resistance.

He gazed through the clear oil at his red and slate blue frame, smiling. He had great appreciation for the utility of his own frame, engineered to perfectly fit his function. It served him so well, in all that it did. He was so thankful that he no longer fought against his aversions and desires. Granted, his social position allowed him a certain freedom to be eccentric, but even before his rise to academic prominence, he had rejected the pressure to fit Cybertronian norms. Every time he brought himself to overload, he felt even more at home in the precious shell that housed his spark and intellect.

Perceptor took a moment to appreciate his chromonanites; the simplicity of his color scheme was, nonetheless, quite striking without being ostentatious. He ran his hands lightly over the thick, three-paneled red and white armor plate on his chest, his sensors tingling and his spark spinning faster deep within, sending pulsing surges from core to extremities like loving caresses. Humming lightly with the music that echoed through the washrack, his hands moved to the pleasing curves and angles of his abdominal plates, then brushed over his rapidly heating dark grey pelvic armor to tease the gaps between his slate blue inner thigh plating and his interface panel.

He lightly twisted and pulled at the the cables within those gaps, rolling them between the tips of his fingers to send shivers of pleasure traveling deep into the inner workings of his valve. He welcomed the heat pooling between his thighs like a good friend, along with the occasional sharp, shocking zaps along his still covered nodes, up his spinal strut to his spark.

While he was pleased with the efficiency with which his frame could achieve a powerful overload, he deliberately was not hurrying this orn. As he felt the charge build, he backed off and simply listened to the music for a time, until his hands began to wander once again, lighting up his sensors with loving, appreciative caresses. He laughed softly when his autonomic systems finally announced they'd had enough with his games, his interface panel sliding back to reveal his spike already halfway protruding from the dark grey tube that housed it.

"Eager this orn, aren't we?" he asked in a teasing tone, his hands resting on either side of his now open panel, fingertips once again playing with the cables within the gaps. He watched as his spike completed pressurization without a single touch until it was standing firm and proud, looking even thicker and longer than normal through the optical distortion of the oil.

The sensitive walls of his valve were vibrating lightly in anticipation of the stretching they anticipated. But he had something else in mind first. He traced the tip of his spike, running a single finger along its nubs and grooves in appreciation, letting out little cries as shocks of pleasure lit up his eager surface nodes. With a low, appreciative hum, he wrapped his hand around the thick heat, and flicked the detachment switch underneath the base.

He brought his spike out of the oil, feeling that delightful stretching sensation of it extending and lengthening along its cable. He watched the thin clear fluid sluice off both his spike and the graceful hand that held it. The oil did not bother him. He cleansed himself in it on a regular basis, and even filtered, it contained trace elements of himself. Though his frame had not produced the substance, it was his; he was as much home within his oil bath as the rest of his lab, a place which was an extension of himself.

For a time, he simply held his spike, wrapped cozily with both hands around its thick base, turning it this way and that, admiring this wonderful part of his frame that gave and took so much pleasure. It was shining and reflective from having been immersed in the oil. Each gentle squeeze of his hands briefly activated nodes deep within.

He waited for the music to reach a particularly beautiful crescendo and brought his spike to his mouthplates, his glossa sweeping around and dipping into the tip. A shiver traveled his entire frame, his armor trembling as he licked the length along the spiral pattern of the nub-covered sensory ridges. His glossa tingled in its own pleasure with each tiny spark that arced between his spike's sensor nubs and those on his nimble oral palpus. His spike throbbed and crackled, sending jolts of bliss along its entire length, down the neural fibers on the cable to his panel.

"Marvelous," he murmured, squeezing it again at the base before opening his mouthplates wide to suck in its length up to the grip of his hands. His entire frame went momentarily rigid as a jolt of electric pleasure slammed through his entire neural net at once. Once his joints and cables relaxed, he began moving his spike in and out of his own intake, his frame jerking with pleasure as each ridge was hit by the ductile plating of his lips. He found the perfect rhythm to build the charge higher and higher without taking him over the edge, squeezing the base each time his mouth enveloped his spike, then releasing the pressure as he pulled it free. His muffled moans accompanied the escalating tempo and pitch of the music as it moved toward its own climax.

The calipers of his valve expanded, walls throbbing, begging to be filled. The joints of his pelvis began rocking in an automatic response to the need, but still he built the charge, waiting for just the right moment. The music swelled along with his charge, until a single alien voice reached a note so pure that his spark surged, his chest plates opening so its light could spill out into the room, coronal tendrils licking the armor of his torso.

With a high keen, matching the pitch of the singer, he plunged his spike into his valve, and began fragging himself in a frantically building pace in tempo with the choir and instruments that had joined that soaring voice. His optical feed and vocal processors shorted out with the charge, and his last awareness as he plunged into overload was the feeling of his spark expanding, as if to encompass his frame, the room, and the music itself.

Somehow, much later, he managed to crawl to his berth, cradling the now closed plates of his chest in his own arms as he sank into recharge in deeply defragmented peace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Anon requested as bonuses that no prior relationship exist between the voy and the self-pleasuring mech, and also that the self-pleasuring mech would be clearly fantasizing about someone (preferably the voy). Obviously, the fantasy part is not going to work with the background I set up for Perceptor. Voy with prior relationship wasn't working out all that well either with where my muses were taking this story, so I opted for a solution that I hope will end up working, and be in keeping with the original req.
> 
> A sample of the music Perceptor is listening to in this section can be found at http://youtu.be/ihvXwyf83qQ (note, skip to :23 for the beginning). Personally, if I had to leave the planet with only one recording, it would be of Rachmaninov's Vespers.
> 
> The image of Beachcomber recharging under Perceptor's table (and many other wonderful things about Beachcomber and Perceptor) is inspired by Tiamatchild's wonderful Beachcomber and Perceptor story, [ The Fix'd Foot](http://tiamatschild.livejournal.com/356849.html).
> 
>  **Chapter Content Notes:** Voyeurism as a spiritual experience, masturbation, detachable sticky equipment, oral.

When Beachcomber was brought out of stasis on the Ark, his first action was to ask after his friend and Academy colleague, Perceptor.

Both had been among those who volunteered themselves for long-term stasis when the energon shortage became critical, realizing that what they could offer was, sadly, less valuable than the scarce fuel they consumed. Not knowing whether they would ever online again, a large group of civilian scientists, technicians, and other non-combatants had gathered during the final breems leading up to their shut-down, in the massive stasis chamber that had been constructed deep under Iacon. As could be expected, the majority began engaging in one final interface (quiet in some cases, and quite rowdy in others).

Beachcomber had watched, knowingly, as his friend become increasingly tense when he was unable to make his usual escape, though Perceptor was adept at hiding his agitation. Things became worse when a small knot of mecha, who for various reasons did not care for the brilliant, multidisciplinary physiologist, deliberately began goading Perceptor about the fact that even in what could be their final breems of conscious functioning, he still thought himself too good for others.

"Easy mecha," Beachcomber said, approaching the group. "Spending your final breems heaping slag on others just makes your own sparks look dim. Everyone has a right to roll the way they roll."

"And I know just who you want to roll, dirt lover, and obviously he thinks he is too good for you," goaded a sour tempered minibot from the nanoengineering department.

"Poor 'Comber," a femme from cryptography added, wrapping her arms around Beachcombers waist and deliberately angling herself to be seen by Perceptor, "why don't we show him how real mecha do it."

"You think?" Beachcomber's normally easy going voice took on a steely edge as he pulled himself away. "I'd take a breem of talking with my friend over a joor of interfacing with any of you, especially if it is the last thing I'll ever commit to my data banks."

With that, Beachcomber crossed the room and sat down next to Perceptor, whose back was against the wall and arms wrapped around his knees. The xenogeologist carefully kept a respectful amount of space between his field and that of the physiologist.

"My gratitude, Beachcomber," Perceptor said softly. "But you did not need to trouble yourself defending me. I am well accustomed to such boorish sentiments; they ceased bothering me long ago. Energon depletion elicits substandard modes of behavior in many mecha."

"It needed saying," Beachcomber murmured, glad to see that the group had become far too distracted by one another to make any more snide remarks. "There's no excuse for it."

"Perhaps not," Perceptor said, followed by a deep ventilation. "Beachcomber... this truly may be approaching your penultimate conscious breem. You should find someone whom you are inclined towards and..."

"I'd rather chat with you, if you don't mind," Beachcomber quickly interrupted. "I meant what I said to them. It isn't like I haven't done enough interfacing in the vorns Primus gave me. But I haven't had nearly enough joors just talking with you."

The expression that brightened Perceptor's facial plates and the obvious satisfaction that briefly surged from his tight field seemed to make the rest of the large chamber disappear into darkness by comparison.

"Well then," Perceptor nodded briskly, "let us converse about the poem your wrote featuring the sentient crystalline entities you encountered on the carbonaceous chondrite spires of planet 8.924782.1-3. Did they truly sing to you, or was that hyperbole? And what, precisely, is a crystal faerie?"

* * *

He had not meant for it to happen. It certainly had not been his intention to invade his friend's preciously gained privacy. Nevertheless, here he was, sensors glued to the visual, auditory, and olfactory feast that was as beautiful and worthy of poetry as anything Beachcomber committed to verse from his expeditions.

It had all started when Beachcomber rolled in from a "backpacking" trip in Denali National Park with Carly, Spike and, Chip.

(The trip had been in celebration of the latter's new and vastly enhanced mobility thanks to the cybernetic implants the human himself had designed under Perceptor's tutelage. At first, the park officials had been reluctant to allow Beachcomber to accompany the humans on their two week trek, but once he proved that he was able to leave less impact on the trail-free Alaskan wilderness than the average hiking boot, they had changed their tune. His human friends had certainly appreciated his company, his geological and naturalistic knowledge, and, most importantly, the fact that his subspace pockets rendered backpacks - and Bear Resistant Food Containers - unnecessary. His EM field, likewise, made mosquito repellant completely redundant.)

After hitting the washracks, the first place Beachcomber had gone was Perceptor's lab. Of course, he hadn't been able to bring any physical samples out of the National Park, but he had written a number of poems about the flora and fauna, geological features, and his companions, who seemed to be in the preliminary stages of trining. The poems were set to multi-sensory memory captures, and he was anxious to share them. The humans couldn't quite appreciate his poetry (much was lost in translation between Cybertronian's multilayered eleven-dimensional glyphs and English). Perceptor, on the other hand, was always eager to experience them, and Beachcomber could be certain that his friend wasn't merely flattering him in for nice, tight, minibot lay.

Beachcomber had entered his friend's lab to find it empty, and, in keeping with his reputation for curling up in strange places, slid under a lab table for a light recharge until his friend returned. He must have recharged more deeply than he intended, because he had onlined, not when Perceptor had entered the lab, but only when the music had begun. His optics were met with an unobstructed view of Perceptor, touching himself with slow, fluid grace and abandon, the language of love vivid in the dance of his hands over his plating. The humming-buzzing-crackling sounds coming from the physiologist's overclocked chassis were a strange, but arousing counterpoint to the soaring sopranos, rich altos, passionate tenors and throbbing bases of the a capella choir chanting Rachmaninov's Vespers.

For some unknown amount of time (Beachcomber was not in the habit of having his internal chronometer activated), Perceptor simply stroked his own sensors, fingers sinking into the gaps of his armor as the music swelled, then backing out as it ebbed. Finally, his dark grey interface panel opened, bringing with it a much higher concentration of the rich molecules of Perceptor's unique lubricants and fluids. Beachcomber stifled a choking noise, thankfully unheard beneath the rich chords of the Russian choir as Perceptor caressed his spike to complete its pressurization, fingers tracing intricate patterns along its sensory ridges.

Every touch was without hurry. This was no quick self maintenance job. This was lovemaking, at its most beautiful. Beachcomber was torn between humble awe and primal lust as he watched the unfolding passion on the small berth Perceptor had slid out from the wall. His own panel was burning with charge, his valve calipers grinding down against nothing but slick emptiness as Perceptor continued to touch his spike with soft, loving caresses, the movement of a single digit along its nodes more erotic than anything Beachcomber had ever seen.

Beachcomber refused to touch himself, no matter what his HUD pinged him with or how uncomfortable his own buzzing charge was becoming. What he was witnessing was like walking in on a rite in some ancient temple that he had no place witnessing. To touch himself while it took place just felt wrong. Not to mention he wasn't certain he would even need to touch himself in order to overload, considering what he was seeing.

He knew he should say something... to stop Perceptor from giving this performance he had never intended to give. If his private and reclusive friend knew, it could mean the end of the trust and comfort the two had built with one another over the vorns, and especially since they had been brought out of stasis on this rich, organic world.

Yet, to stop such perfect lovemaking seemed in and of itself a blasphemy. Beachcomber remained silent, watching.

Perceptor bent the knee that was closest to the wall, his other pede coming to the floor by his berth, leaving his valve wantonly open. Beachcomber watched it visibly contract and relax, lubricant beginning to flow over the rim. He had to mute his vocalizer to keep his praise from joining that of the choir. Perceptor's far hand continued to caress his spike, while the digits of his other hand began massaging the rim of his valve, again, with no hurry, just the tender caresses of a lover who know the value of taking his time.

Beachcomber's own valve ached in desperation to be stretched and filled, but strangely, he was not imaging his friend's thick cord igniting the sensors deep inside him. Knowing Perceptor as he did, to fantasize so just did not feel right. No, in the choreography of Beachcomber's imagination, he was kneeling before Perceptor, who was making love to himself as he now did, as the humans who were singing might seek inspiration before a candlelit icon. Then, another supplicant would come behind him, positioning him on his hands and kneejoints so they both could see, and enter him slowly, seeking enlightenment together.

The music swelled again, and Beachcomber's spike surged with charge as Perceptor pulled his own spike free from his frame, a thick cable stretching with it as he brought it to his chest, running it along the highly sensitive seam just over his spark chamber. Beachcomber had heard of such spike modifications, but they were highly unusual unless mecha had functions that took them off Cybertron and away from potential partners for many vorns at a time. He had never even considered one because his expeditions always included at least one or two others.

Watching Perceptor run his spike, now lightly vibrating, along that seam was an epiphany. There was nothing sad or lonely about Perceptor's actions. He watched was his friend's back struts arched upward into the vibrations and the now visible charge arced between his spike and the growing gap in his plating. As the plates continued to expand, exposing the vivid brilliance of his spark energies, Perceptor used it to stimulate the sensitive conduits and cables now exposed. Finally, he brought his spike to his own valve, running its vibrating tip along the outer nodes, little shivers and jerks running through the slate blue and red frame each time one was lit.

The choir's voices swelled again, and one of Perceptor's hands was now cradling and caressing his own spark chamber, while the other rhythmically squeezed the base of the spike that was giving shallow, teasing thrusts just barely into the rim of his valve. His cries and keens were a melodic accompaniment to the crescendoing music. Beachcomber's own spark surged in response as his friend's as Perceptor's fingers finally dipped into the coronal light even while he slowly, slowly began pushing his spike into slick and visibly throbbing valve.

With a dizzying symphony of sound, the choir began chanting a word Beachcomber recognized as the Russian transliteration of the Hebrew word הללויה, Hallelujah. As Perceptor increased both the pace of his thrusts and the stroking of his own spark, the geologist believed there had never been a glyph or word more fitting.

Beachcomber's own frame began to tremble and shake, just as Perceptor's did the same, ghost-like flickers of charge racing over them both despite Beachcomber refraining from touching himself and his physical separation from the source of his now frantic arousal. Perceptor's thrusts were becoming erratic, his whining keens now louder than the soaring music. The climax, when it came, was far more than a simple valve or spike overload, but made the entire red and blue frame arch and flex outward, spark energies flaring and seeming to engulf him for several kliks after the music faded, until the energies themselves faded into the silence.

The sound of Perceptor's chestplates closing seemed almost rudely loud in the silence that followed. Beachcomber did not dare move, or even cycle his vents. But other than the sounds of his autonomic systems, Perceptor was completely still, already deep in recharge with his own spike still buried in his valve. Beachcomber's internals shivered at the thought of his friend slowly onlining later, making love with himself. The geologist's own charge was an audible buzz that was horribly loud to his audials in the silence of the lab.

As silently as he could, he unfolded himself from beneath the lab table table and made his way to the door. With a final glance over his shoulder at his peacefully recharging friend, he signaled it to open, only to find that the lock was encrypted. Now panic, as well as barely contained and desperate charge was racing through him. Would he have to wait until Perceptor onlined and left his lab? The physiologist was known to stay there for days at a time!

He turned to look frantically around the lab for another egress point. Could he fit through the vents? But even as he made a visual sweep of the room, he heard the door slide open.

Turning around, he found himself looking up at the stern expression of the rarely-seen Autobot security director. ::You will come with me,:: Red Alert ordered on a private comm channel, turning around and briskly walking away without waiting to see if Beachcomber would follow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original requester stated whatever came after the voyeurism was writer's choice. *Wiggles eyebrows* My choice is for Red Alert to have tentacle-like prehensile data cables and to be highly competent in their use. He needs them to plug into all of those monitors, right? My other choice is for Perceptor to be the Cybertronian version of Julian of Norwich... only on Cybertron, mystics like to masturbate. A lot. Don't hate me!
> 
>  **Chapter Content Notes** Religious themes, tentacle-like data cables, PnP, oral, sharing of voyeuristic memory files.

Of all the places Beachcomber expected to end up this cycle, locked in the security office with its walls of monitors, consoles, and sensor readouts was not it.

(Of course, he hadn't expected to end up hiding under a lab table while his closest friend shot the definition of self-maintenance up to the stratosphere, either.)

He most certainly had not expected to end up locked in said office, flat on his back with his knee joints bent and and thighs spread wide, and the aforementioned security director's mouthplates sealed over his valve, glossa wiggling into one of the interior grooves until it hit the string of nodes within, pulling a shout from the peace-loving mech's vocal modulator.

And he most definitely had not been planning on having Red Alert's plethora of prehensile data cables sinking into his ports, wrapping around his spike, and sliding their way into the ever-widening gaps in his armor. He hadn't seen that one coming, not that he had much time to consider the oversight with his systems suddenly overwhelmed with the playback of his own most recent memories of Perceptor gloriously stroking himself to the lush organic music.

He was dimly aware of Red Alert riffling through his data, ascertaining what he had been up to in Perceptor's lab and during his two weeks in the Alaskan wilderness. Not that he minded in the least. Not as long as Red Alert kept squeezing and stroking and licking and probing him all over just like that.

How had he ended up in such an unforeseen position? Apparently by being too befuddled by his blazingly overclocked systems to pay proper attention to Red Alert's ranting. Something about electrum, failure to disclose sensitive information to the proper authorities, his recent backpacking trip, the dangers of consorting too closely with the humans, cerebro shells and Soundwave's cassettes.

Red Alert had seemed to realize this, and had cut himself off in the middle of his diatribe. He then gave Beachcomber an exasperated look before transmitting the standard interface-query glyph, with the appropriate modifiers suggesting a position, the use of data cables, along with a detailed subglyph expressing the desire to download his most recent memory files in order to clear him of wrong doing.

Beachcomber hadn't wasted any time transmitting his acceptance. Diatribe notwithstanding, Red Alert's field had been buzzing, too, and felt good against the geologist's.

All in all, it was not a horrible way to be interrogated. Especially the way Red Alert's moan vibrated within him when Beachcomber grabbed the security director's sensory horns and squeezed them hard -- a sparkfelt expression of his undying gratitude for the way Red Alert's glossa was exploring the inner topography of his valve and flicking repeatedly against that one node deep on left side (the one that made his entire spinal strut tingle, his thigh-struts jerk, and would have made his toe flanges repeatedly splay, if he had them).

Primus... was Red Alert's glossa really that long? Oh yes! Yes it was! And now it was splitting off into smaller tendrils that were going to work on the cluster of nodes at his valve's apex and in all the rights places in the grooves that spiraled his depth. Groovy.

The two thick data cables around his spike squeezed in time with the thrumming buzz of his systems that was syncopated by the rhythmic grip of his valve, attempting to trap the multiple tendrils of Red Alert's glossa firmly against his rapidly firing nodes. Not that he really wanted those tendrils to remain still. No, not at all, but his calipers were gripping frantically nonetheless.

Whatever Red Alert was looking for, he must have found, because Beachcomber became aware of the security director letting down his own firewalls enough to sink into the sensory data his glossa and cables were so skillfully creating, even as they shared the glorious memory of Perceptor spasming and arching in ecstasy, one hand wrapped in the tendrils of his own spark and the other frantically fragging himself with his spike.

The scent of ozone was sharp, but Beachcomber was no longer aware of whether it recalled his memory files from the corona discharge in Perceptor's lab or was the result of the ghostly blue flickers and wisps of plasma presently traversing their frames, occasionally arcing between them. It no longer mattered. He was lost in his senses and memory files as torrid heat blossomed in his spike and valve and erupted from him with all the subtlety of a pyroclastic flow. He was neither consciously aware of Red Alert following him into overload, nor of the security director skillfully looping their sensor feeds. He was only aware of the beauty for his untouchable friend, the ethereal yet sensuous music and an overload that seemed to be chasing the leading edge of the universe.

* * *

Beachcomber onlined to find Red Alert meticulously cleaning him off with a clean polishing rag.

"Did I... I'm sorry dude, I didn't take care of your charge..." were the first awkward words out of his vocal modulator as he struggled to a seated position.

"It would not be fitting for the Director of Autobot Security to go offline whilst on duty, no matter how strong the overload," Red Alert said crisply. "I am quite satisfied with the data I obtained," he added with a smug tone, and Beachcomber wasn't certain whether Red Alert was referring to the shared sensory data or what he had found while rifling around in his memory files.

"I really didn't mean any trouble. I was just hangin' loose, waiting for him..."

"I am completely aware of your intentions, though, I must warn you, those being controlled by Soundwave's telepathy or Bombshell's cerebro shells are rarely aware that they intend harm. The last thing we need is one of our own assassinating one of our scientists or stealing their data. The processing power we have is our _only_ advantage in this war, and constant vigilance is the only thing standing between Megatron and that advantage."

Beachcomber was not certain how to respond. It was true, to an extent. The majority of Megatron's forces were warrior builds, and when it came to the use of deadly force, they had superior coding and integrated weaponry. With the exception of the few former gladiators and military models that had sided with Prime, the rest of the Autobots had to work against their own core coding in order to take lethal action.

Some were better at doing so than others, and Beachcomber didn't even want to even consider the reprogramming that must have involved. Messing with core code was usually a quick trip to insanity. Beachcomber's pacifist coding was as much a function of his spark as it was his protocols, and he found firing a weapon painfully difficult, even in self-defense or the defense of others.

What the Autobots did have were some of the best processors Cybertron had ever produced, whether for tactics, espionage, or science. In that way, Red Alert was correct.

"I'd never hurt Perceptor," Beachcomber finally said, as Red Alert seemed to be expecting a response. "Dude's my closest friend."

"That is good," Red Alert said gravely. "Then I can trust you not to say a word to others about what you saw. Other than Prime, I would not trust a single mech here to show the proper reverence, or even to understand what it means to have a Primus-bonded Kadesh in our midst."

Beachcomber's visor dimmed and flickered for a moment as he searched his linguistic files for matches for the human words and the glyphs that had been transmitted with them. Primus and bonded were clear enough, both in their English and Cybertronian forms, but he'd never seen the two put together before. He had no files on the glyph that had accompanied the ancient semitic word, Kadesh, which itself had multiple layers of meaning, including sacred and set-apart, but also could be used to refer to certain types of ancient Near East prostitutes.

"Sorry, but I ain't jivin' with that word. What's a Kadesh?"

Red Alert cycled his intakes and gave Beachcomber yet another exasperated look. "You'd think our history started with the Golden Age, so many mecha act like there is nothing worthy of any data storage before then. Kadesh seemed a more fitting human word for the concept than an eremite or anchorite, though those fit as well, as does the Russian poustinik."

Beachcomber was, if possible, even more perplexed. "Sorry, dude, but what does Perceptor have to do with a religious hermit?"

"It is not a precise translation, as I said," Red Alert began, his tone condescending, but it didn't bother Beachcomber. He just wanted to understand. "Long before the Golden Age with its hyper rationalism and wide assumption that Primus was merely a superstition, the Primus-bonded Kadeshim were some of the most respected mecha on our planet. They were rare, and precious, sparked without a desire to interface with others that was so intense that amounted to revulsion. That was how they were recognized. They consecrated their lives to Primus and to the service of Cybertron, and practiced a form of meditation that included mystical auto-eroticism. Their overloads could last breems, even up to a joor in one tale."

"Masturbating mystics?" Beachcomber said, and then immediately felt hot with embarrassment.

"To put it crassly," Red Alert said, turning away from Beachcomber and plugging several of his datacables into the wall of monitors, ignoring the shiver that ran through Beachcomber's frame at their movement. "It was said that in making love to themselves, they were communing with the spark that is the source of every spark, and when they overloaded, their sparks released energy from Primus to purify and enlighten the planet. It was well known that the Kadeshim had sparks that supported the most advanced processors, and many great advances were made in sciences, the arts, and philosophy thanks to bursts of inspiration or visions they had while engaging in erotic meditation."

"So, how do you know Perceptor is one of these... Kadeshim?" Beachcomber asked, even as his visor was drawn to one of the monitors that clearly showed Perceptor's lab with Perceptor recharging peacefully on the small berth, his spike still in his valve.

"I know because I was built and sparked to be the director of security for one of the few remaining fully active Primus-temples," Red Alert explained, with something like wistfulness in his voice. "All the temple personnel were well versed in the ancient traditions and how to recognize sparks that were especially gifted in communing with Primus, including potential Primes."

"Okay, so you have been... watching him for how long?"

"I watch his _lab_ , and I make sure that he is safe, ever since he was brought out of stasis." Red Alert corrected sharply. "Do you know which locations Soundwave's cassettes visit with the greatest frequency? The labs of our scientists. It is my duty to know who enters and exits those labs and what takes place within. The personal activities of any mecha on this ship, so long as they are not putting the Ark or its personnel at risk, are kept in the strictest of confidence. My core coding demands it. I do what I must to keep us safe. What would happen if Soundwave discovered that I stopped my vigilance whenever a mech was interfacing or self-servicing? I'll tell you what would happen. The first sign of Perceptor touching himself, and one of the cassettes would be in that lab."

Beachcomber glanced over at Red Alert, who was clearly internally processing the monitor feeds, his optics dark. He cycled his vents and dove in to his suspicions. "It's more than that, though, isn't it? You especially have a need to protect Perceptor."

"He is a Primus-bonded Kadesh," Red Alert said simply. "He is rare, and precious. He must be protected."

"Does he know... have you told him what you think he is? Does he know you watch him?" Beachcomber asked carefully.

Red Alert's optics blazed on and he turned to stare at Beachcomber with frightening intensity. "What purpose would it serve? He doesn't know what he is, and I do not have the knowledge to initiate him any further. That was not my function. If he had been in our temple, my function would have been preventing others from touching him, from invading his sacred cell without permission, to assure his safety during the public rituals, and to do background checks on those permitted to witness his meditations, whether private or public. If he were to engage in the rituals as the Kadeshim once did, in front of others, who on this ship would respect what they were seeing, would view it as anything other than an erotic show and try to lure him into their berths to experience if first hand? I've read over the records. Mecha view Perceptor as either a challenge, an insult, or malfunctioning."

"I don't," Beachcomber said softly. "His spark just spins its own way. I've always known that."

Beachcomber could feel Red Alert regarding him in the silence, but he refused to flinch, and continued to look at that one monitor screen. "You knew I was in that lab, before Perceptor came in. You could have demanded that I leave. You wanted me to see. You wanted someone else to know what you know."

Out of the side of his visor, Beachcomber saw Red Alert's optics once again go dark as he faced the monitor wall. When he responded, his voice sounded distant. "In the temples, the Kadeshim were valued for their wisdom... for the advice they gave. So long as their sacred bond to Primus was respected, they enjoyed spending time with others. They had close friendships and successful intellectual collaborations. Those who were worthy of witnessing their meditations were, even on occasion permitted to interface in their presence, while they were overloading and spreading the energy of Primus."

"You want me to be Perceptor's witness," Beachcomber said, longing static lacing his voice.

"I have watched all of the civilians on the Ark closely since they were brought out of stasis. I had to be certain none of you were Decepticon agents. I have been... impressed with your friendship with Perceptor, and that you naturally show him the kind of respect he is due as a Kadesh. You intuitively understood the resonance of his field. You are a worthy witness of his ecstasy."

Yet another shiver ran through Beachcomber's frame, this time rattling his armor. "I won't be watching him again. Not without his permission," he said carefully.

"I agree. If his spark is truly that of a Kadesh, you may find yourself surprised at his response. It is not being watched that is adverse to him. It is being touched... having the matter or energy of another enter his frame sensually, when his spark belongs to Primus alone."

"Maybe, or I may be about to ruin a unique kind of friendship. But I'm not talking with him alone. You're going to talk to him with me, and tell him what you've been doing... what your function was in the temple. And there is no guarantee that he is going to take it well. You may think he is one of these mystics, but I've never even heard Perceptor mention Primus."

Red Alert turned and glared at him again. "I am simply fulfilling my function. I have done nothing wrong. I see many things that no one is aware of and that are sealed behind my own firewalls. I was sparked for this work, and will not apologize for what I do."

"Slow down, dude. I'm not asking you to apologize to him. But he should know...what you were, what you are, what you think he is. He should know you are... keeping him safe. And... you said that sometimes it was permitted for others to interface while the Kadesh was overloading. I can't really do that alone, can I?"

Beachcomber swore that he saw a ghost of a smile on Red Alert's faceplates. "No, I suppose you cannot," he said softly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Content Notes:** No specific notes for this chapter.
> 
> Thank you to Merfilly, Chai16, Swindleslog, and Tainry for advice and encouragement along the way!

Beachcomber watched as Perceptor attentively listened to all that Red Alert had to say. The geologist had already offered his own subdued explanation of recent events as a prelude to Red Alert's very detailed report (delivered along with several datapads worth of supporting documentation). The physiologist occasionally interjected questions for clarification on certain points. When Red Alert had finished, Perceptor simply sat and perused one of the datapads, his tightly reined field giving no hint as to his emotional state.

As the silence continued, Beachcomber couldn't keep himself from filling it. "I'm so very, very sorry, Perceptor. I'll understand if you never wish to spend time with me again."

Perceptor immediately looked up and placed the datapad on the table atop the others. His bright blue optics focused intently on the geologist. "Forgive my rudeness, Beachcomber! The information Red Alert has provided me is simply so fascinating that I momentarily disregarded the fact that both of you were still present. As to your confession: my dear, dear friend, whatever could make you even consider that I would be aggrieved by your actions? As you said, you had no intention of trespassing upon my privacy. You onlined from recharge when I was already in the midst of my maintenance, and you did not wish to interrupt my self ministrations. Your native inquisitiveness compounded by the inherent awkwardness of the quandary in which you found yourself makes your conduct perfectly comprehensible."

Beachcomber cycled his vents in relief, cooling systems that had been running hot due to the anxious speed at which his spark was spinning. "You're sure?"

"Indubitably," Perceptor responded, giving a benign smile and turning his attention to Red Alert. "And considering that when I initiate my defragmentation and circuit discharge sequence, I lose all exteroception save for whatever audial stimulation I have selected for the proceedings, it is fortuitous that you, our most diligent director of security, keeps such careful surveillance! Rumble could activate his pile drivers next to my berth, and I would just as likely fail to perceive it, my designation not withstanding!" The scientist gave a bright laugh at his own pun.

Beachcomber could not help but to laugh, more in relief than humor, his own field relaxing dramatically. He glanced over at Red Alert, who had been sitting stiffly formal throughout his explanation, and saw that the security director, normally so serious, was actually giving a small smile.

"I am pleased the you understand that need for my surveillance, Perceptor," the red and white mech said in a slightly less formal tone than he had been using up to that point. "I am curious..." he paused, as though nervous about continuing.

Perceptor chuckled, and then gently offered, "You wish to know if I believe I am one of these Kadeshim, as you called them?"

Red Alert gave an affirmative buzz, the Cybertronian equivalent of a quick nod.

"That, my dear Red Alert, is what I have been pondering throughout your presentation. While I have never considered myself a mystic by any definition of the word, I find the concepts you have outlined completely intriguing and worthy of further investigation. I recognized long ago that my proclivities caused distress and misunderstandings between myself and my compatriots, but I also long ago abandoned any notion that my disposition was based on a malfunction of my spark or coding. Nevertheless, it is a relief to know that there is documentation of historical precedent for my onanistic orientation. That among the staggering variety of sparks Vector Sigma produces, there would have been others who have shared a similar interfacial profile to myself is a delight to me. That they would have resided in the secure environment of the ancient Primus Temples is only logical. At least if they were as completely oblivious to anything save their own interoception during such engagements as I am. It should have occurred to me to inquire for someone to keep watch long ago, considering the importance and sensitivity of my data to the Autobot cause."

"So having someone watch you doesn't feel... intrusive?" Beachcomber asked, amazed at his friend's response.

Perceptor appeared to ponder the question, then gave a laugh and raised his hands in a wryly helpless gesture. "Logically, considering the intensity of my aversions, one might conjecture that such observation would feel invasive, but I cannot say that it bothers me in the least. To be quite frank, once my maintenance is underway, I am completely oblivious to any extraneous data, which is just what one would postulate, based on the historical record, isn't that correct, Red Alert?"

"It was well documented that nearly all of the externally focused subroutines would shut down when the Kadeshim were engaged in their meditations," Red Alert agreed. "So long as the sanctity of their personal space was not disturbed, observation was never an aversion for them because it was not possible for them to be aware of anything other than the erotic communion with the spark of Primus residing within them, once they had reached that state of consciousness."

"Such a lovely and poetic way to describe the sensations!" Perceptor pronounced delightedly. "What is most fascinating to me about the information you have so generously provided is the fact that these Kadeshim had bursts of intellectual or artistic inspiration during their overloads."

"Have you?" asked Beachcomber, leaning forward earnestly.

"Many times!" Perceptor said in a similar tone. "Entire formulas more complex than any I have come up with through ordinary processing, solutions to quandaries that have vexed me for vorns, and one time, eleven paradoxical exceptions to Nova Lumen's universal theory of trans-dimensional constants! It is why I no longer prize efficiency in that particular maintenance routine. Too many of my most important insights have taken place during their peak." Even with Perceptor's field held as close it always was, Beachcomber could sense the pure, unfettered delight spinning off of him. It was infectious. All he wanted to do was sit and grin and listen to his friend.

"Well then, I must be getting back to the security office. Primus knows what Ironhide has overlooked while there!" Red Alert announced, standing and transmitting a glyph to formally take his leave and thank Perceptor for his hospitality, an old tradition that was rarely used, but to Beachcomber felt so very fitting. But even as Perceptor stood to transmit the traditional parting glyphs in turn, a question occurred to Beachcomber.

"If Ironhide is on monitors, does that mean..."

"Never," Red Alert said sharply, in what for him was a very assuring tone. "There are certain feeds I connect remotely to my internal monitors, even when I am off duty, which is rare."

"Do you not completely shut down during recharge?" Perceptor asked in a tone that all fascination rather than concern. "Oh... that's right! Security mecha of your model are able to recharge and defragment various systems independently of the others. It is a fascinating design that not many sparks would be suited to."

Red Alert gave another small smile. "I recharge better physically connected to the monitors, when I know my subroutines will online me if anything is amiss. Everyone thinks it's just because I'm paranoid."

"But it is just how your spark spins," Beachcomber concluded, as he, too, stood and transmitted the rarely used formal glyphs of parting.

Once the security director had departed, Beachcomber looked around the lab awkwardly, trying to decide if it was also time for him to leave.

"I do believe you had an expedition to share and a new collection of poetry you wished for me to experience," Perceptor said gently, "and I would enjoy experiencing it over some high grade." Perceptor gestured to the stool at the lab table where Beachcomber had been sitting before and went to a cabinet to retrieve a cube of Ratchet's finest, a grade that emphasized flavor over the sheer potency.

Perceptor then sat across the table from his friend and handed him the cube with a warm smile. "Before you begin, however, let us be rid of any residual awkwardness. You have only to ask, my friend."

Beachcomber felt as though his spark was going to spin right out of his chestplates, and his armor actually trembled as his visor met his friend's optics. "May I... watch you again some time?" His voice was small and full of static.

"Of course you may," Perceptor assured him, reaching out briefly with his field in a brush of rarely offered platonic affection and assurance. "There is no one I would trust more to do so. I have never been able to engage in the interfacial intimacy that is the normal means by which mecha strengthen the many bonds that unite us. While I would be fully unaware of you during my... meditations does seem an exemplary descriptor of the experience...it seems somehow fitting that there be some manner in which I could share that with my closest friend, from time to time. Now," Perceptor took a sip of his high grade and propped his elbows on the table, resting his helm on his hands. "Do tell me all about what must have been a fascinating adventure in such a geologically and biologically rich setting. And I wish to ascertain how Chip's upgrades performed. He has not yet had an opportunity to report to me."

* * *

 _And thus ends this tale of Perceptor, the masturbating mystic, formerly of the Academy of Science and Technology on Cybertron, and eventually a resident of Metroplex on Earth, who, it seems, fashioned the scientist a most interestingly appointed laboratory complete with a private wash rack and oil bath. It is said that part of that lab could transform into a chamber with an unusually lavish and comfortable berth, decorated with ancient High Cybertronian glyphs normally found only among the ruins of ancient Primus Temples on the homeworld. That berth, hidden from everyday view, slid out from the wall at appropriate times and was, strangely, surrounded by furnishings designed for the comfort various frame-types._

 _Beachcomber did, indeed, find himself the witness to many of Perceptor's meditations, at least when his friend remembered to invite him. His poetry took an erotic turn at about that same juncture, and mecha found themselves spontaneously overloading during his multi-sensory descriptions of the titillating features of Earth's geography._

 _If, from time to time, Beachcomber was joined by a certain security director in Perceptor's lab, none but Metroplex knows, as the feeds to Perceptor's lab mysteriously disappeared when Red Alert was absent from his office. However, I do have it on good authority that Beachcomber would often find himself humming certain pieces of music, and would then, in his casual way, make his way to said office, where he was always admitted. There were never any paint transfers to give their activities away, and perhaps, considering the volume of the music that sometimes emerged from behind those doors, it is possible that the two simply shared a similar taste in that artform._

 _Were others eventually invited to join in observing Perceptor's self-maintenance routine, you ask? I will leave that to your own active imaginations. But I will mention that one of the chairs Metroplex outfitted the physiologists lab with would have been highly appropriate to a certain former loading dock worker, and it was empty for a time, but then was filled again after much rejoicing. Another was quite large and of an appropriate structure to be comfortable to a Delta-Class Deep Seeker shuttle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This was my first kinkmeme fill, and I had more fun with it than should be strictly legal. Thank you for reading and reviewing! To all of you, my wish and hope is that you will take pleasure in who you are, how your wheels roll, and the way your sparks spin._


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